Bonaparte
by Amory Vain
Summary: Prompt: "adam/anyone hooker!fic please. i want someone to have their nasty way with him and then throw a wad of bills at him and leave." Adam/Peter; warnings for prostitution, non-con, asphyxiation, mild sadism.


**Bonaparte [[936 Words]]**  
_Heroes_  
Peter/Adam  
Set four years in the future. General spoilers for seasons 2 & 3.  
Non-consensual sex, asphyxiation, name-calling, mild sadism. Crack; did I mention the crack?

* * *

"How much?"

"Doesn't matter." He laughs as he stands, abandoning his position against the alley wall to push past the other man. "Nice to see you again, Peter, but I know better than to waste my time."

Peter catches his wrist before he can pass and slams him back against the brick, channeling someone else's preternatural strength. "I went to all the trouble of finding you; don't make _that_ a waste. You're a whore now, and I want to fuck. Isn't that how these things work?"

Adam looks pointedly at the hand still wrapped around his arm. The bones grind together as Peter squeezes, pressing a bruise to his unfortunately fair skin, and he winces and says, "You obviously don't want a shag, Peter. You want vengeance, and I'm not in that business anymore." He considers it a kindness that he doesn't mention how unattractive he finds that new haircut, that new scar.

"The hell you are." Something snaps painfully in Adam's wrist and Peter snarls, pushing him back and forcing a biting kiss over his mouth. Adam groans after a moment and allows Peter to force his mouth open, tasting blood and grimacing at the way his skull cracks against the wall behind him.

"You'd better pay me for this," he gasps when he catches his breath. Peter snorts and pushes a knee between his thighs, swatting Adam's hand aside when the man reaches for his belt buckle. "You're _pathetic_."

"You're the one who can't buy a better lay," Adam can't resist snapping before Peter hits him, a glancing blow off the side of his jaw and then he can't breathe for the fingers around his throat.

Adam chokes, vision spotting and grabs at Peter's hand, nails dragging rapidly-healing lines over his skin. He can't breathe, and everything suddenly seems dark and close and he moved back to the city so he _wouldn't_ smell freshly-turned earth everywhere he went, but—that's panic, despite himself, and he's thrashing against Peter, who only smirks and holds him in place.

"Bringing up unpleasant memories, Adam?" He grins like he knows something he shouldn't, and his other hand is working open the front of Adam's jeans. He slips his fingers inside to grab at soft flesh, and Adam tries to force his lips to form words, to protest, but he can't _breathe_, he's suffocating.

"Claustrophobic?" Peter asks, breath hot on Adam's face like the air in that coffin, too close and stale, and Peter's jerking him off, forcing him to hardness and if anyone would've asked he'd have told them that was impossible, not like this. "Hiro told me how he buried you. He told me you screamed, Adam. He said he could hear you yelling the whole time he was shoveling dirt on top of the grave.

"And you deserved it, you bastard." His hold loosens enough for Adam to almost suck in a breath and then he grips him again, one hand tight on his throat and the other around his cock. It's too much effort to keep his eyes open anymore, but it's too dark with them closed and Adam moans, unable to resist when Peter presses in for a kiss, ready to do anything, to give anything to _breathe_ again, but—

He comes back to himself on the ground, with that muddled, clouded feeling that implies his body's still regenerating brain cells, throat aching like it's filled with ground glass and the taste of copper on his tongue. Peter exhales against his temple, holding him upright while he wipes his hand on Adam's shirt. "Get up. We're not done here."

He can only stare, disbelieving, as Peter stands and brushes dirt from his pants. "Well?" He glances down and then looks at him again, appraising. "On second thought, stay where you are. I think I like seeing you on your knees, finally."

"Peter—" he grates, voice still sounding raw and unnatural, but Peter's already unzipping his pants, pulling Adam to him with some sort of telekinetic force. He ignores his better judgment and doesn't fight it this time, allows his mouth to be pried open and filled.

Peter is no more gentle in pleasuring himself than he was getting Adam off. He drags him close, too much, too fast, and if Adam didn't do this for a living he'd be suffocating again. As is, it's—overwhelming. As Peter fucks his mouth, he swears, cursing Adam for the virus, for Caitlin's disappearance, for Claire's defection.

And the _names_. If Adam could speak, he might comment on the fact that Peter's vocabulary has expanded in the past few years. But he can't speak, his mouth's so full he's _gagging_, so he focuses on breathing evenly and Peter's _fucking cunt bitch whore faggot_ until he comes, bitter and salty against his tongue.

He finally releases him and Adam coughs, spits, wipes sticky white fluid off his chin and doesn't bother to hide his distaste. Peter only smirks, watching him while he zips his pants and reaches for his wallet. "Here you go. _Payment_." The wad of bills he tosses hits Adam in the chest and lands on the ground in front of him.

He glances back as he walks away, frowns and pauses. "Was it worth it, Adam?"

Adam almost asks Peter the same question. Instead, he picks up the money and makes a show of counting it. "Well, I would've expected a tip, but sure.

"Because, Peter?" He smiles coldly, tilting his head to display the ring of bruises across his neck, already fading. "Eventually I'll recover, and when I do, I'll be stronger than ever."


End file.
